


You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Blowjobs, Breathplay, Coming Untouched, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Tales from 2004, Vandays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 16:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15561618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: A lot of times, Pete enjoys not being good. He loves teasing back, enjoys riling Patrick up; his fucked-up masochistic brain needs the hunt, the thrill of destruction.This is their way to turn it into something constructive, something they can both work with, a game with carefully laid-out rules that neither of them can lose. Pete is walking on a tightrope, but he knows whenever he inevitably falls, Patrick is there to catch him.Pete craves pain, craves punishment, absolution and any other easy solution. This is not it, but it’s pretty damn close.





	You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Helly everyone! Here's some surprise smut for y'all, it's been a few busy weeks and I promise to update my other fics as soon as real life stops punching me in the face!
> 
> WARNING, this fic contains some drawings which may have a dick and naked butts in them. You have been warned.  
> Title, as always, taken from a Morrissey song.
> 
> Inspired by [this tumblr post](http://hurleywhore.tumblr.com/post/103460082724/patrick-stump-over-the-years-est-2004) and some late night sinning with the lovely laudanum, who is always an inspiration!~
> 
> Thanks to Snitches, who as always is a great beta reader and test audience, haha!

 

 

 

 

 

It’s starts innocently, like it always does.

 

A smack of wet lips against Patrick’s cheek on stage. A phone call at 3 AM, then five calls at 4 AM, keeping Patrick up at night with constant annoyances. Crude little pranks that make Patrick narrow his eyes as he stands amidst a smelly mess of broken dishes and rotten food.

 

It progresses and becomes a little less innocent, inevitably and irreversibly.

 

A hand clutching into Patrick’s waist, until it’s shoved away. Constant body contact, humping and squabbling and just anything that’ll get Pete close to him until Patrick leaves him, with scratches and bruises, on the floor. Glass cracked, the door of the venue’s bathroom left in splinters by Pete’s boots, guilt written all over Pete’s body in the form of too much eyeliner and red scabs.

Patrick meanwhile is good at faking innocence. He’s small, all baby-blue eyes and cherubic lips, soft blond hair and a slightly nerdy choice of clothes. When people see him awkwardly fumbling with the cuff of his jeans jacket with the Bowie-pin, face half-hidden under a silly baseball cap, they don’t assume much.

They’re all wrong. They always are. Pete’s not one of these people though.

Pete can see it, has always seen the potential hidden in Patrick. The marvelous golden voice, his talent for composition, but also the delicious stretch of cream-colored flesh under shirts and peeking through the holes in his jeans, the devilish gleam in the curve of his smile.

And as always, Pete has wanted everything for himself. The world can look, but they can’t touch. They can’t own him like Pete does, a lovesick puppy and fierce claimer of his territory.

 

It gets worse, like it always does, because that’s just how it works in the world of Pete Wentz.

 

He knows when he’s alone in the back of the van late at night, abandoned by an annoyed, angry Patrick with nothing but his hand and sidekick to keep him company. Pete is wound up tight, fury pulsing low in his guts about to be soothed by benevolent benzos. Before the pills can kick in, Pete turns on his stomach; he’s greeted by the glow of the display, enters the abyss of worldwide communication. He finds what he’s looking for not too long after.

The pictures posted all around the fan blogs, the forums, rarely and journalistic sites. Pete finds them nonetheless, stares at them wide-eyed and the masochistic pleasure of well-known pain.

The light of the flash caught in Patrick’s glasses, reflected on his pretty parted lips, revealing his pink tongue and pearl teeth. Sweat-slick hair sticks to his forehead, begging to be gripped, yanked, carded through gently afterwards.

Patrick, a pale ghost against a dark background, wide-eyed smile as he points towards the viewer. Towards _Pete_ , who has it saved next to another picture of a wide-eyed ghostly smirk.

Someone else’s hand around Patrick’s shoulder, Patrick leaning into the touch; eyes narrowed, mouth slightly opened, almost as if he was blowing a kiss to the camera. Or rather, to the potential viewer, to Pete specifically, because he knows that Pete searches the internet up and down for these sort of snaps, saves them to his laptop and sidekick, stares at the glow of the screen late at night and whenever he’s lonely.

The rational part of Pete, no matter how small that may be, knows that Patrick would never cheat on him. Patrick hurts him, but only on _their_ terms, and cheating is not on them. Pete trusts him, like he does in so many other regards.

But the irrational part of Pete’s sick little brain gets furious over the pictures, mad with jealousy, coiled-up anger first unwinding into antics on stage, smashing his fists into any (sur)face available, then into desperation, cuddling up to Patrick, clawing and pawing at him until he’s pushed away.

Patrick knows it, plays with it, makes Pete’s stomach burn with jealousy and nervous energy. It’s a tease, of what Pete could have – Patrick’s gorgeous mouth, spit-slick and swollen, wrapped around his cock to suck him off for hours. It’s a warning, that Patrick is angry. It’s a reminder for Pete to be good, to behave, to not go out and destroy himself and everything good like he always does.

 

A lot of times, Pete enjoys not being good. He loves teasing back, enjoys riling Patrick up; his fucked-up masochistic brain needs the hunt, the thrill of destruction.

This is their way to turn it into something constructive, something they can both work with, a game with carefully laid-out rules that neither of them can lose. Pete is walking on a tightrope, but he knows whenever he inevitably falls, Patrick is there to catch him.

Pete craves pain, craves punishment, absolution and any other easy solution. This is not it, but it’s pretty damn close.

 

The pictures continue. It’ll go on for as long as Pete keeps up the bad act, refuses to be rational, and usually with this kind of punishment, he knows he won’t last long.

Another lonely night, another hunt for Patrick pictures. Another kissy face, Patrick in a terrible corduroy blazer, narrowed eyes gleaming at the camera provocatively. Pete feels his blood starting to boil, bubbles under his skin, bones vibrating.

Patrick in the pretty blue shirt that matches his eyes so well; when Pete sees the picture, he almost chokes. Again, Patrick’s eyes are staring down the camera, pure devious defiance. That look, Pete knows it, from sleepless nights and rumpled sheets, first summer-love and after-dark kisses that turned dirty in their bed, van, backstage of a shitty venue. Patrick’s mouth, his goddamn fucking _mouth_ is opened again, forming a perfect O, sideburns-bearded cheeks hollowed like he’s sucking them in. Pete has his shorts off and his hand on his cock in no time, soon spills hot relief all over his naked stomach. It lasts for a heavenly moment, then turns cold and damp like the semen on his skin.

 

Soon enough even Patrick will run out of patience, even he can’t keep it up forever. Thankfully, Pete can’t take it anymore _right now_.

 

It’s a rare hotel night, bunks traded for beds, on which Patrick is currently sitting, watching as Pete strips out of his shirt and pants. He’s not wearing underwear, because he knew what to expect of this evening when he saw the twinge of satisfaction in Patrick’s smile. No words have come over Pete’s lips ever since they entered the room, because he knows the mood has shifted, knows that Patrick is challenging him. If Pete can behave, no more lonely nights of jerking off to pictures of Patrick smiling at strangers. If Pete breaks down, Patrick can put him together again. Pete needs the noise to stop, needs the world to come to a halt for just a moment.

Naked, kneeling in the floor, the rough carpet sure to leave his knees raw. Pete is waiting, hands behind his back.

“Good,” Patrick says, his voice low, a whisper of black silk, a shadow of colorful bruises, the promise of deep-red lust and pleasure. “See? You can be good, if you want.”

Pete knows better than to talk, so he just hums in approval as a spark of anticipation buzzes down his spine, blood rushing into his cock. He’s been half-hard ever since Patrick closed the door behind them, and each golden-voiced word only makes it worse.

Patrick slowly gets up from the bed and Pete wants to jump to his feet, he wants to scream, cry, take everything Patrick is willing to give even if that’s fists and fury. But that’s not what will happen today. It’s about what Patrick is willing to give.

The calloused fingers on Pete’s skin make him shiver. Patrick trails lightly over his shoulders, traces the promise of bruises over the lines of his tattoos. “You know what a good boy gets, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The word slips over Pete’s lips involuntarily.

“I didn’t ask you to answer with words,” Patrick says coldly as he shoves down his own pants, just enough to free his cock and give a glimpse of gold-freckled thighs. “I want you to _show_ me, Pete. Show me what a good boy gets, and maybe I’ll give it to you.”

That is so fucking unfair. Pete’s dick is curved against his stomach, hard with the anticipation of the gorgeous mouth just out of reach, and he doesn’t want Patrick to play him anymore. But Patrick buries his fingers into Pete’s greasy hair, yanks his head back, the pain sharp enough to interrupt Pete’s little pity party.

“I’ve waited so long, baby,” Patrick growls hungrily, “you’ve seen the pictures of me, haven’t you? I looked so desperate just for you. The whole world can see how much I want to suck your cock. Don’t they, Pete?”

 

Pete only whimpers in response, each word hitting him like a sharp blow. He’s so turned on it hurts, his aching hard-on begging to be touched. But Pete keeps his hands behind his back, and Patrick keeps talking.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” Patrick whispers, half-danger and semi-seduction, “show me what I’ve been craving.”

With that, he tugs at Pete’s hair again, and any resistance in Pete melts away. He moans as he laps at Patrick’s cock, clumsily, wide brown eyes staring up. Patrick mutters something under his breath, wraps a hand around the base of his dick, lets the head brush over Pete’s waiting lips. Pete can taste the hint of salt and sweat, the smear of pre-cum. Patrick is young and excitable and fuck if that doesn’t turn Pete on even more.

The time to tease is over. Pete leans forward, mouth open, slowly taking Patrick’s length. Patrick has a pretty big dick for a guy his size, thick and blood red save for that little stray freckle on the head. Pete’s lips meet Patrick’s hand and Pete takes a moment, a deep breath until his throat has adjusted to the cock pressing against it. Then, Patrick takes his hand off his dick, and it twists into Pete’s hair as well, pulls him closer, closer, closer until Pete’s nose is buried against dark-blond curls, forehead pressed against Patrick’s soft stomach.

Patrick throws his head back, moans as he pushes Pete off, then pulls him close again. Pete wants to touch, wants to sink his nails into Patrick’s skin but decides not to push his luck. They’re kept behind his back as he continues to suck Patrick off, fast and rough, tongue swirling over heated flesh, tasting skin and sweat, more salty pre-cum and sweet, sweet young and carefree love.

Pete aches with the want, with the sheer need to have Patrick reciprocate, he wants to be the very best boy so that Patrick can proudly suck his dick with the same finesse. And Pete Wentz never half-asses things, so he moans around Patrick’s cock, eyes still fixed on Patrick just the way he knows he likes it, tongue pressed against the sensitive underside, the ridge, then back against the base.

 

“Fuck,” he hears Patrick groan, “fuck, stop it, you’re gonna make me come!”

 

That is exactly what Pete wants, to feel Patrick come in his mouth, taste him, lick off every bit of cum and sweat. But he’s pulled away, whimpering when Patrick’s cock slides out of his mouth, and then Patrick’s hands let go of him and Pete is lost, he’s floating away, he’s not been good enough and everything will soon disappear and –

Patrick wraps his arms around his waist and Pete stiffens, afraid of punishment, afraid Patrick will push him away and leave him crumbled to the floor in broken pieces. Instead, Patrick pulls him up. “I got you,” he whispers into Pete’s ear, soft and reassuring, “I’m here, Pete. Okay?”

Somewhere in his brain Pete registers the question, manages to nod in agreement. Patrick is here. Patrick is here, and then Patrick is on the bed with him, lips pressing kisses behind Pete’s ear, to the tip of his nose, down his throat and rib cage, tongue tracing over the bartskull tattoo on Pete’s groin. Then finally, fucking _finally_ , Patrick’s pretty lips wrap around the head of Pete’s dick and he can do nothing but cry out in relief and desire.

In an instant Pete has buried his fingers into Patrick’s hair, soft blond strands reassuring him that Patrick is here, here, _here_ with him, him, _him_. Not a smug smile on screen, not just pixelated dreams, but a real gremlin grin and sinful tongue, cheeks hollowed, blue eyes fixed on Pete directly, not just through the lens of a camera.

It is everything Pete has hoped and wished for. It’s the tight wet heat of Patrick’s throat, the pink plush of his lips framing Pete’s dick in the most exquisite way, the tempting curve of his ass right in Pete’s view. When Patrick pulls away Pete almost panics, until he sees the small bottle of lube in his hands. Patrick gently nudges his legs apart, and Pete can only comply, can only sigh dreamily when Patrick’s lips are back on his dick, can only moan loudly at two of Patrick’s fingers breach the barrier of his body. It burns, in a good way, the pain a strangely comforting relief matching the tears that build up in Pete’s eyes. Pete doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to worry, he just has to moan a little more and push back against the exquisite sharp burn, push up into Patrick’s hot mouth.

“’m gonna,” Pete start blurting out with the last bit of his rational brain that’s left, “Patrick, I’m gonna…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and Patrick doesn’t stop sucking him off, the glimmer of his gremlin grin still visible in his eyes even as his lips are wrapped around a dick. It’s too fucking much, and then Patrick’s fingers curl up against Pete’s prostate, making him shout. They rub over the sensitive spot repeatedly until Pete fucking loses it, comes with a loud cry into Patrick’s mouth, cock twitching and his ass clenching down around Patrick’s fingers. Patrick still doesn’t stop, tongue swirling around Pete’s softening dick until Pete whimpers from overstimulation, finally feeling a tear falling from the corner of his eye.

The next tear is kissed away before it can fall to the mattress, then Patrick finally kisses him on the mouth, lips swollen from the blowjob, tongue tasting like Pete. It’s pretty hot, made even better by the fact that two of Patrick’s fingers are still buried in Pete’s ass. Patrick cocks an eyebrow, a silent question if he should stop; but fuck, Pete won’t let him stop anytime soon. He drags Patrick back in for more making out, interrupted by soft whimpering as Patrick keeps fingering him.  

When Patrick stops Pete’s not fully hard again, but he’s wet and open, his mind buzzing with the _want want want_ , the eternal need for _Patrick Patrick Patrick_. Pete moans, presses his heels into Patrick’s back to get him to move, to fuck him, hard, fast, now.

It earns him Patrick’s hand on his throat, grip tight enough to make Pete gasp for air. “I set the pace here,” Patrick scolds him, his cold voice a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands. “Let go of me. Be patient, Pete. Be _good_ , or I’ll stop.”

No, no, Patrick stopping is the last thing Pete wants right now. He whines, but lowers his legs, puts his arms over his head to twist his fingers into the sheet. Anything to make Patrick go on, make him give what Pete oh so desperately wants, anything that makes Patrick allow Pete to touch him again, makes him give Pete much-needed praise.

If it were possible, Pete would beg to be tied up; he loves the feeling of cold, sharp metal edges digging into his flesh, loves the futile fight, how it grounds him down and forces him into the here and now with Patrick. But they leave too many marks, the potential for injury is too great, so as much as Pete longs for more, all he can do his clench his fists a little tighter.

 

Patrick lines up with his entrance, his blood-red cock so pretty in his pale hand. His other hand is still wrapped around Pete’s throat, lightly now, just as a warning. Pete is breathing hard, bites his lips, he won’t take the bait no matter how impatient he is. Patrick said to be good. Pete wants his reward.

Patrick pushes in slowly, lets Pete feel the stretch of his thick cock, lets him feel every inch of his impressive length as he bottoms out. His fingers trail down from Pete’s throat over his collarbones, pinch Pete’s nipples until he cries out, then come to rest at his hip.

Everything feels dulled, and yet somehow simultaneously more intense. It’s more of a constant arousal, the chase to the potential of his next orgasm; Pete’s skin is on fire, burning under Patrick’s touch, his half-limp dick twitching when Patrick starts to move slowly. Pete squirms a little, and part of him wants to drag Patrick closer, wants to beg Patrick to just _use_ him, fuck him hard, carelessly and rough until everything is just white pain. But he knows that he’s not allowed, that Patrick would never do this; he’s not going to hurt Pete just to _hurt_ him. Pete feels that he’s going to break, going to fall apart, a burst of fireworks, strings of a bass snapping. Then, Patrick will put him back together, but Pete knows he can only do that if they play it to Patrick’s rules, too.

Pete’s hands twist harder into the sheets, knuckles white with the strain except for the red scratches that Pete got God knows where. Patrick cups his ass, a delicious surge of pain when his calloused fingers dig into heated flesh. They leave more red on Pete’s skin as blunt nails drag over his thighs, until Patrick’s hand is on the back of Pete’s knee. He pushes down, down, down, which changes the angle just the right way. The next thrust hits Pete’s prostate, makes him yell out and arch his back. It’s so much, but still not enough. Pete needs more. More. More. What he gets is exactly that as Patrick’s other hand is on his throat again, intending to give everything by giving Pete less.

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick presses down, and Pete’s eyes bulge.

 

Every nerve is overcharged, every movement Patrick makes is felt through Pete’s whole body. A rock cast into water, causing the surface to ripple; except Pete’s in turmoil, waves crashing over his head until he feels like he’s drowning. More tears stream down his face as he gasps for air, but he only cries out Patrick’s name as if _he_ were the oxygen so desperately needed. The moment he does, Patrick lets go, allows Pete to breathe in deeply with a little mewl in the back of his abused throat.

“Wish you could see yourself,” Patrick whispers, voice raw and his heart bared open. “You’re so fucking pretty, baby, so fucking – fucking beautiful.” Another kiss replaces any answer from Pete. “Such a fucking good boy for me,” Patrick coos, his voice the sweetest sound Pete has ever heard. “So – ah, so good, Pete…”

Each breath caresses Pete’s skin like a feather, each word is a precious treasure just for him, Pete, irreplaceable opals.

“Patrick, please, you need to – need to fucking touch my dick, please,” Pete begs, his voice hoarse, barely audible. He’s so close, so goddamn close, cock leaking steadily, his mouth running on autopilot, his body shivering and screaming with the need.

“I don’t,” Patrick answers, his pretty mouth twisted into his gremlin grin. “You can come like this, I know you can.”

Pete groans at the unfairness of it, bangs his fists into the mattress.

Patrick’s hand around his throat twitches, thumb and index finger pressed down enough that Pete can feel his heartbeat against his trachea. “Throw a tantrum again, and I won’t let you come _at all_.”

Pete thinks he might actually die of frustration if he doesn’t get to come. He immediately wants to apologize, wants to beg and let Patrick grant him forgiveness. But the hand on his throat signals that this isn’t what Patrick wants. Excuses won’t correct Pete’s mistakes in the past and right now, Patrick wants him to be good so that there’ll be nothing to apologize for in the first place.

And Pete can be good. Good. He can be so good. He can earn his reward.

And when Patrick’s other hand pushes down his legs again, when Patrick fucks even harder into him, each thrust hitting that perfect point of pleasure, Pete knows Patrick has been right. He can barely hear the praise Patrick is mumbling into his ear, there’s nothing but Pete’s own heartbeat, flesh against flesh, Patrick’s dick filling him up perfectly each time, and then the world blacks out as Pete comes a second time with a hoarse scream. Every nerve end is buzzing, Pete is vibrating out of his body, his orgasm too strange and overwhelming.

He can hear a melodic little cry as Patrick comes, dick buried balls-deep inside of Pete, filling him with liquid heat and lust. He feels a kiss ghosted over his forehead, and then Pete’s mind goes blank.

 

 

When Pete’s brain picks up the flow of reality again, Patrick has already pulled out. He’s still towering over Pete, sweat cooling on his skin, the blush on his face fading into pink. It can’t have been more than a few minutes, although it felt like hours to Pete. He’s eternally grateful that Patrick stayed with him, kept him grounded and hugged him through it. Pete doesn’t like to come back from whatever dark places his mind wanders and find himself alone.

“You okay?” Patrick asks softly, hand trailing over Pete’s cheek. Pete nods, and Patrick smiles, small but sweetly. “Good. I’ll go clean us up. Stay with me, baby. Count for me,” Patrick orders and Pete does, counts the _tap tap tap_ of Patrick’s bare feet against the floor, the folds in the curtains, the cracks in the wall paint, catches up with the count of lost seconds.

The mattress dips and Patrick is back, already in his underwear. He still doesn’t like to be naked, and it’s a miracle he hasn’t put on a shirt already. It’s only because he knows Pete needs him, needs the contact with bare skin, the warmth and the smell of sweat and sex. That Patrick is willing to go out of his comfort zone to give that to him is more precious to Pete than anything else.

A wet washcloth cleans up the trail of tears and sweat on Pete’s face. Pete squeezes his eyes shut, but Patrick kisses him softly. “Be a good boy and let me clean the rest of you, Pete.”

Patrick’s hand brushes over his knuckles and its only then Pete realizes his fists are still clutched into the sheet. He slowly unclenches them, lowers his arms, groans at the flash of pain in his shoulders. It earns him a concerned look from Patrick who bites his lip, looks almost guilty because he was the one who ordered Pete to keep his hands away. It’s still and always will be strangely adorable how Patrick shifts from that bossy little gremlin in bed to the cute lovesick boyfriend.

Patrick cleans the rest of Pete with gentle, precise movements. Pete practically purrs as Patrick’s hand leaves him with goosebumps, and when Patrick cleans the mess between his legs, carefully wipes over his spent cock and wet, leaking entrance, Pete wishes he could get it up just one more time right now. Fucking bullshit biology.

 

When he’s done, Patrick throws the washcloth in the vague direction of the bathroom, kicks the bottle of lube off the bed with his foot, and lays down at the other side of the bed. “C’mere,” he grumbles, “I don’t wanna lay in your mess.” He points to the stain of lube and come on the sheets between Pete’s legs, who can’t help but roll his eyes.

“ _You_ made that mess,” he protests with a pout, but rolls over to Patrick anyway.

“Shhh. Just be a good boy and cuddle me.”

Who is Pete to object? A moment later he’s all over Patrick, naked skin against naked skin, tan and ink against ivory. Patrick rubs his shoulders which still ache from the strain, and Pete leans into the touch with a content sigh.

“I’m sorry I’m not always so good,” Pete says in a small vice as he traces over the light trail of hair on Patrick’s belly. “I’m sorry for my mess.”

“You know I don’t really give a shit about excuses,” Patrick says with a glare. “I want you to behave in a way that doesn’t require any apologies afterwards. And my forgiveness isn’t blanket permission to go out and do more bullshit.”

All Pete can do is nod. They both know this isn’t perfect, that Pete will go out and fuck up some more, because that’s what Pete does. But maybe, next time, he will fuck up less. It’s this hope that keeps Pete afloat, keeps making him want to try harder tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and every other day after that. With Patrick at his side, he can do it. _They_ can do it.

“Am I allowed to say thanks?” Pete asks, only semi-serious. Patrick scoffs, and pulls his hair just a little.

“You damn well better thank me, Wentz. I just made you come twice.”

That’s not what Pete means, they both know, but Patrick doesn’t want to talk right now. All of this is a lot for him too, Pete is his best friend, bandmate, his first boyfriend and serious relationship, that’s too much to handle all at once sometimes. Pete thinks that’s okay, they have tomorrow and any other day after that.  

 

“I love you,” Pete whispers, a bright white grin on his face and his arms slung around Patrick, who hugs him back tightly.

“I love you too.” Patrick kisses him softly, the shadow of a frown on his lips. “And no matter what, just _you_. You know that, right? The pictures, they’re just… I’d never...”

Pete interrupts him with another kiss. “I know you’d never. Who else could handle your bossy white ass in bed anyway?”

With a miffed expression, Patrick pushes Pete’s face away. “Maybe I should thank you,” he mutters, “for, y’know. Everything. Being okay with me being… Me.”

“I love it,” Pete says with an even bigger grin, “just like I love you, Tricky.”

Patrick scoffs, but draws Pete closer again. Pete feels the warmth of Patrick’s body, Patrick’s heartbeat against his, Patrick’s hand tracing the dawn of a new song into Pete’s skin.

 

 

 

They have tomorrow, and any other day after that. And today, they have one another.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please consider leaving a little comment, and let me know if you enjoyed the accompanying art so I'll know whether to do more of this in the future... :)
> 
> You can find my tumblr [here](http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com), I do more art here!


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